When the show was over, the crowd set off for home, leaving the bodies to hang for the prescribed time until dusk. The distraught relatives waited beneath to claim them for burial, as none were to be gibbeted, an added disgrace for heinous crimes like treason, where the corpses were locked in an iron cage and hung up for weeks or months for the crows to pick the decaying remnants to pieces.
De Wolfe and Gwyn walked back to the South Gate, Thomas following behind, muttering and crossing himself at frequent intervals. The coroner’s footsteps became slower as they entered the cathedral Close and the inevitable confrontation with Matilda became imminent. Thomas wandered off to his lodging in Canon’s Row and Gwyn, sensing John’s morbid preoccupation, murmured some excuse then peeled off outside St Martin’s Church and vanished up the back lane in search of the nearest ale-house.
With leaden feet, de Wolfe walked on to the nemesis of his front door, not sparing a glance for the cleric who stood in the entrance of the little church opposite.
Though de Wolfe did not notice him, Edwin of Frome took note of the coroner’s comings and goings. His church was rarely busy and he had plenty of time to lurk just inside the door and watch all who went by, speculating on their business.
The parish priest of St Martin’s was unusual in that he was a Saxon. Though the distinction between Norman and Saxon was becoming blurred, many on both sides still took it seriously. The difference in appearance of some pure-bred men and women of either race was still striking and their names proclaimed the persisting schism.
Edwin of Frome had the classic appearance of a Saxon. He was tall, fair-skinned, and his hair was almost yellow, though all that remained of it was a thick rim running around between his shaven crown and shaven neck. He had been born in Somerset thirty-five years ago, a great-grandson of one of the few Saxons to keep their land after the invasion.
At seven, he had been dispatched to the school of Bath Abbey where he had known Adam of Dol. Perhaps that was why they had the same fire-and-brimstone style of preaching, though Edwin was more restrained than the ranting priest of St Mary Steps. Although he had a large chip on his shoulder about his Saxon blood, he had none of the resentment of Julian Fulk or Adam concerning his lack of advancement in the Church. He was content with his modest living in the little chapel of St Martin and was realistic enough to know that, in a solidly Norman enclave like the hierarchy of Exeter Cathedral, he was lucky to have risen as far as he had. Edwin’s discontent led in a different direction: he had an obsessional interest in the scriptures. Although every priest should revere, study and love the Bible, his devotion to it was abnormal by any standard.
He was well lettered, though not over-endowed with high intelligence. Edwin believed that every word, every syllable of the Vulgate was God’s own utterance, and could neither understand nor accept that all his fellow men, even many priests, did not feel the same way. He knew virtually every word of his own tattered copy by heart and several times had been mortified — and almost driven into madness — to discover that other copies were not identical with his. The logical part of his mind accepted that translations might vary from the original Greek and also that the scribes, who had laboriously written each copy, occasionally made mistakes which were then perpetuated and added to, by further scriveners down the line.
But then his tunnel-vision mentality spawned an agitated concern as to whether his copy was the true Word of God or whether the different version was — and as there were many different versions, which of them were true and which false? Though he spoke good Norman French and Latin, his preferred tongue was his native Middle English — so when he had realised that there were also many vernacular versions of the Scriptures, as well as the Latin Vulgate, the far worse variations of text in these almost drove him insane! The issue came to dominate his life, and robust sermons that he delivered to his meagre congregation, inevitably slid towards the iniquity of men who allowed the Word of God to be perverted by false Gospels.
Soon his small flock began to tire of the theme and he lost more of his congregation to the numerous other churches, of which there were three around the Close alone.
Edwin had sporadic insight into his own condition and knew that he was getting worse. For his own safety, he now rarely strayed off the route between his church and his room in Priest Street: he often felt an almost irresistible urge to confront people in the street and demand to know whether they believed every word of the Holy Book. Some weeks ago, he had encountered a mendicant monk, preaching to a knot of curious loungers in the Serge Market. The unfortunate lecturer happened to quote a passage from the Acts of the Apostles, just as Edwin was passing — but according to Edwin’s version, he misquoted three words. In a flash, the Saxon priest had the monk by the throat and was wrestling him to the ground, screaming that he must be the anti-Christ, for misleading honest folk. The hugely entertained bystanders dragged him off the bemused preacher and shoved him on his way.
A vicar-choral had seen the extraordinary encounter, which duly came to the ears of the Archdeacon, who gave Edwin a stern warning. He expected that more severe censure would come sooner or later and added this to the burden he carried of being a Saxon in a Norman world.
All these thoughts churned in his head as he turned from his door and stared blankly at the interior of his little church.
The midday meal was as unpleasant as John had expected. A stony silence prevailed for the first half and Matilda, dressed in funeral black, ate stolidly without raising her eyes from her bowl and platter. His gruff attempts at conversation were ignored, but he knew from long experience that this was the quiet before the storm. Even Brutus knew that something was amiss, as he lay quietly before the empty hearth, the white showing in the corner of one eye, as it swivelled cautiously towards his master. Mary came in and out almost on tiptoe and her surreptitious wink from behind Matilda’s chair did little to cheer him.
De Wolfe had little appetite, but for the sake of appearances, he sucked at the Friday fish stew and champed on boiled turnip ringed with onions fried in butter. When the maid cleared the debris of the meal and brought in thick slices of bread and a slab of crusted cheese, John knew that the dam was about to burst and tried to forestall it. ‘There’s been another strange murder,’ he said, ‘and again the culprit must be a priest.’
Matilda’s face rose slowly, framed by the white linen coverchief and wimple around her neck. ‘Strange? Yes — strange that it should happen outside the Bush Inn.’ The words were snapped out of a mouth as unforgiving as a rat-trap.
‘It was a whore from London,’ he went on doggedly.
‘So, two whores in that tavern. I’ve no doubt that now your investigations will take you there frequently.’
From there, the dialogue followed a familiar pattern, all downhill. As Matilda became angrier, she became more vociferous and her voice rose steadily in pitch and volume. De Wolfe’s temper rose too, and within minutes they were yelling at each other, intriguing those folk in Martin’s Lane who passed the ill-fitting window shutters.
The quarrel ended in its usual fashion: de Wolfe stood up and threw over his stool with a crash. ‘I’ll not stay here to be endlessly insulted by you, you miserable old harridan!’ he bellowed. ‘I went to the Bush to see a murdered corpse, as is my duty — a duty you encouraged me to undertake. But if you are set on turning it into a scandal, then I may as well fulfil your accusations, for I’ve nothing to gain by denying it!’
With a face like stone, he stalked to the hall door and slammed it behind him, leaving Matilda at the table, red-faced but unrepentant. In the vestibule where the yard passage opened behind the heavy street door, he found Mary waiting with his short cloak already in her hand.